


the golden price

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Bran still goes North and Rickon is left as Lord of Winterfell, Catelyn doesn't release Jaime, Domino effect of minor changes, F/M, Sansa in Dorne, Theon Greyjoy is a Gift, Theon in Dorne, Theon is sent to King's Landing instead, Theon never takes Winterfell, Theon rescues Sansa from the Lannisters, Theon-centric, Unplanned Pregnancy, no red wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-28 10:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18754534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Divergence from Season 2: Remember when Tyrion offered Mrycella's hand in marriage as a plot, to find out who was loyal to Cersei; out of Littlefinger, Pycelle and Varys? The Queen only found out about the suggestion that Pycelle learnt about.But the suitor Tyrion suggested to Varys was Theon Greyjoy. What if he had offered Theon to Myrcella, via Pycelle instead? This story explores that minor change, and all the repercussions it could have had, cause 8x03 and 8x04 broke me.





	1. Chapter 1

Theon stared at his father with narrowed, squinty eyes, as if that slightly blurred view might compel his mind to make more sense of the man.

"A marriage proposal?" he repeated, "For me?"

"And a stellar match too, with a green lander girl. Lots of coin for that wench," his father chuckled throatily.

Theon had already noted his hacking cough, and the rasp of his voice when he spoke. He wondered how long death's looming shadow had been creeping upon Balon Greyjoy.

"Not an Ironborn?" Theon clarified, "I thought, perhaps a Stonehouse girl? Or a Goodbrother?"

"All the Goodbrother girls are wed," smirked Yara, "You've been away for a long time, little brother."

Theon bit his cheek to stop himself from asking if it was entirely necessary that his sister be present for this discussion. Surely this was between him and his father? Securing a bride for a man's heir was men's business.

"So who-"

"The Princess Mrycella," His father replied with a darkly amused grin, "A Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, wed to a Greyjoy! I hear the laughter of our ancestors in the clap of every wave against the cliffs."

" _Princess Mrycella?_ " Theon repeated dumbly.

He'd met the little girl at Winterfell, when she travelled with the King's party. He had barely taken note of her; she was a very young girl. Theon had no interest in innocents so young, unlike some lecherous men. He preferred a woman of vast experience to scared, maidenly virgins who shivered at every touch. He'd never broken in a girl before.

"How far the Lannisters have fallen," Yara said, with that hateful smirk still plastered to her lips, "To beg for Ironborn cock over their perfumed, prancing lordlings."

Balon snorted at her words.

"They want our ships, girl," he said, "That's the price they're willing to pay for the Iron Fleet in this war- the Iron Prince."

"How is that blood?" Yara protested.

It was Theon's turn to smirk then. "Clearly you're still a maid, if you don't think a woman bleeds in her marriage bed."

Balon chuckled, and Theon felt a pathetic little twinge of thrill, to be the one to amuse their father. Yara scowled at him, but she wasn't given chance to reply, as Balon seated himself imperiously and said;

"You're to settle the details in King's Landing. I'm sending you on my brother Victarion's ship. He'll help secure the match."

"Nuncle Victarion's dump as a stump!" Theon cried, "I may have been gone years, but my memory serves well enough. Victarion's who you send when you want killing done. There's nought to reave at the bartering table."

"Oh?" said his father, with raised brows, "You disapprove of my choice? And who would you send in his stead?"

Theon mulled it over for a moment, then spoke carefully; "Nuncle Dagmer. He's keen with the axe, but his mind is just as sharp."

"Hmmm..."

"And Aunt Gwyn." Theon tacked on. "She's always been too clever by half, you say."

Balon sat forward at that, a glimmer of something like begruding respect in his eye.

"Gwynesse Harlaw would sooner spit in my eye and curse me, than do my bidding," Balon grinned, and Theon could see he respected the woman all the more for it.

"Father's right," Yara chipped in, satisfied that Theon appeared to have made a wrong choice, "She'd say no just to spite us."

"You, maybe," said Theon pompously, "But she doted on me when I was small. I was always her favourite of father's sons. Not that it was ever much of a contest; I at least know how to eat with a fork."

Balon snorted, but it seemed mirthful, and so Theon continued;

"You need not ask her, Father. I'll go to Harlaw myself and do so."

"Good," Yara cut in decisively, "You can visit Mother while you're there."

"Why's Mother on Harlaw?" Theon frowned in confusion.

The Harlaws of Ten Towers, his mother's kin, took their House name from the Island they took claim of, sometime after the end of the Age of Heroes. But a woman lived in her husband's house, once she was wed. And visits were usually conducted by an entire household, not a woman alone. Lady Catelyn had never visited the Riverlands, in all the time Theon had lived at Winterfell.

"Is Nuncle Rodrik sick?" Theon asked. It was the only reason he could think of, why his mother would be at her girlhood home.

"No," said his father shortly, before dismissing him and his sister both.

But not before agreeing to send Dagmer Cleftjaw with Theon, on his mission to secure an obscenely wealthy bride. Theon was stunned by how proud he felt, having swayed his father to do anything.

Yara hounded Theon all the way back to his rooms, poking at his cloak and dogging his steps.

"This is a ridiculous scheme," she said, "And I doubt anything will come of it. Why would the pretty, weak little lioness want you for a husband?"

Theon glared at her, offended. "Why would I want her? Bastard born she is, so they say; and a product of incest besides."

"She's probably cross-eyed," said Yara meanly.

"She's not!" Theon scowled, "I've met her, when she was a girl. A sweet little thing, with green eyes and a riot of golden curls, like her mother."

A thought came to him then, and he smirked licentiously. "Her mother, Cersei Lannister; the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, so the bards sing. What's the betting her daughter grows to be a looker worth writing songs of, as well?"

"A pretty face and a hole to fuck aren't enough to make a Queen of the Iron Islands," Yara warned him, but Theon could see she was seething in jealousy.

"Maybe so," Theon shrugged, "But apparently she comes with quite a lot of gold. And fighting men too. Maybe some ships?"

And he began to whistle as he sauntered back to his rooms, leaving his elder sister fuming in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

"No, no, no," smarted Lady Gwynesse Harlaw, rapping her knuckles on the exquisitely lacquered cherry-wood table. "That won't do at all."

Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers, jumped a little at the unexpected noise, and closed his eyes in exhaustion. He was probably gaining a headache from these long, tiresomely circular discussions. Theon certainly was, and he didn't even sit in on everything.

Half of his time was taken up by walking with the petite Princess through the rose gardens. She simpered at him sweetly, her smile fixed and her eyes watery. Mrycella was clearly terrified of him, and Theon wondered what fabrications her spiteful mother had spun about him, and his people, to scare her out of her wits. Theon was under no illusions about Cersei Lannister's thoughts regarding a marriage between him and her daughter. She'd already threatened to have him killed in his bed.

Theon stuck closer to his uncle, who was in truth a distant cousin, after that. He wasn't rattled exactly, more cautious. The Queen had a lot of sway at court, and stomped about with Lannister guards as a protection detail, now she no longer qualified to have the Kingsguard follow her about.

When Theon wasn't escorting his bride-to-be about, nor thrashing out the details, he looked for Sansa. He'd only seen her twice, and both times had been from afar. He'd hoped to chance upon her in the gardens, but the Lannisters must have been keeping her away when he was roaming about with the Princess. He wanted badly to speak to her, and explain his presence at court. She must have thought he had betrayed Robb, and he swallowed deeply whenever he reasoned he might have.

Before he set sail from Harlaw, Theon had sent Robb a raven. He explained his father's refusal of Robb's terms, and the demand Theon go to King's Landing.

 _I can't escape,_ Theon wrote, _my father is like to murder me if I try, kinslaying be damned. He barely thinks of me as a son. He says you Starks had me too long, and the North got into my blood. Maybe he's right. All I can think of now is Sansa. There's been no word of Arya. But if by my life or death, I can save your sister from the lions, I swear I will. You are my brother, now and always._

There'd been no time to wait for word back, and Theon doubted very much Robb would risk sending a letter to the Red Keep. So he was forced to go without a reply, and only hope Robb had recieved his message, in time to fortify the North against his father's attack.

This afternoon, Theon was stuck in lengthy, irritating talks that Aunt Gwyn took mastery of, as he knew she would.

"The boy deserves a title of note," she was insisting now, "Unless you want your Princess wed to nothing of nowhere?"

"He's the heir to the Iron Islands, which is why he was made this offer in the first place," countered Lord Baelish, the smirking whoremonger who owned the best brothels in King's Landing.

Aunt Gwyn snorted very unattractively. She was a beautiful woman, with long sandy-red hair, the same colour as Theon's own, and cold green-grey eyes like the sea on a stormy afternoon. She carried a drik on her belt and wore long dark dresses with high necks and puffed sleeves that clinched at the wrist. Her fingers were covered in silver rings, and a necklace of white pearls ever sat on her throat. She pressed a firm kiss to Theon's forehead every eve before they separated, to take dinner in their rooms, or if they had dined in the halls, before making their separate ways to their own guest chambers.

"You would never have made this offer if you ever expected that skinny girl to sit the Seastone Chair at Theon' s side," she said imperiously, wiping Baelish's smug smile from his weaselly face.

Theon cast a side-eye at his Aunt, wondering where she was leading with this tactic. If she denied his claim to the Islands, the Lannisters would surely end the negotations now. What was he, if not the son of Balon Greyjoy?

"What do you suggest, my lady?" simpered Lord Varys, the eunuch.

Theon shuddered each time they met, unable to quite smother his natural disgust at a eunuch. Who knew what a man with no manhood wanted? What his needs or desires were? It was too strange and unnatural, and scared him half to death to think of it. Theon thought he'd probably slit his own throat, rather than live as a half-man wretch like Varys.

Aunt Gwyn grinned just like Yara, savage and untamed. She was a freeborn woman of the Iron Islands, with salt and smoke in her blood.

"A position at this court," she said triumphantly, "It's about time our ways held some sway over these Seven Kingdoms, if we are bound to remain within them."

The Queen, who had remained silent until that moment, rose one golden Lannister eyebrow at Gwyn's bold declaration.

"And what do you suggest," she taunted, "Master of Games, or perhaps Feasts?"

Aunt Gwyn glared at the other woman, who might have been considered prettier by green land standards. But Theon personally thought out of the two, his Aunt was more comely. Gwynesse Harlaw had a kind of wild, unbridled beauty, raw and real. Cersei Lannister was coifed and painted, corseted and austere in her rich finery.

Theon finally understood what his people meant, when they scorned the gold price their enemies paid for their pretty trinkets. He wouldn't be in the least surprised to learn Aunt Gwyn had paid the iron price for the rings on her fingers, though it was not considered shameful for Ironborn women to pay the gold price. Only men, Theon thought, remembering the golden necklace his father had thrown in the fire when Theon admitted he had paid for it.

"Master of Laws sits open, I understand," said his fiery Aunt, "Since Renly Baratheon fled from court."

"A position on the Small Coucil," Varys said slowly, "It is an... interesting proposal."

"One you should give due consideration," said Aunt Gwyn, rising to her feet abruptly.

The men at the table stumbled to their feet, quick to show respect to a highborn lady, even one from the scorned Iron Islands. The Queen rose far more sedately to her feet, far less concerned with appearing respectful. Theon took note and added her continued arrogance onto his mental list of reasons why he hated her.

"My Queen would surely draw comfort from knowing her daughter's husband was settled and secure in court, with a Great Office," Aunt Gwyn tacked on before she began to leave, "And the Princess will continue to be afforded all the respect she deserves with such a match."

She led the procession of Ironborn from the room, consenting to take Dagmer Cleftjaw's arm. Theon eyed the gentle touch of her hand on his Uncles' elbow, suspiciously. He wondered if perhaps there would not be another wedding arranged among his kin, before these negotitations were through.

Gwyn returned to her chambers, but Theon went instead to the Great Throne Hall, in the hopes of finding Sansa. As luck would have it, this day turned into the first time Theon was able to speak to Sansa, though under far less desirable circumstances than he had been imagining. When Theon entered the room with the intimidating Iron Throne, and huge pillars where courtiers mingled, he immediately recognised the sobbing originating from the centre. The court was almost entirely quiet apart from it; the silent lords and ladies gathered around a sight Theon could not see.

"Sansa?" he called out, unable to bite his tongue.  
  
He knew that cry. He had heard it a half-a-hundred times in their shared childhood, when Arya broke her dolls, or the cook ran out of lemoncakes. But Theon had never heard the sound seem so pitiful nor heartwrenching, not even when Jon Snow almost died of a fever, or Bran fell from the broken tower. He rushed through the crowd that parted reluctantly for him, as the courtiers turned to see who would recognise the girl's cries so well.

Sansa was on her knees, her pale green dress torn almost in half, the shredded pieces around her slim frame in heaps. Her bare breasts hung loose, though she held the spilling flesh in her hands, hiding her pink nipples. Theon could see the laces of the corset about her waist, with disbelieving eyes. He had never thought to see Sansa Stark so undressed, not even on the day of her bedding. After she was betrothed to a Southron Prince, he had little expectation of ever seeing her again, until the war broke out. If he thought of Sansa's progress to womanhood in their youth, it was with innocent pride; she was a beauty, and Theon never expected to see her humiliated thus.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Theon fumed, matching forward while tearing at the bindings of his summer cloak.

Most men went without in the heat of King's Landing, and never had he been more glad that it felt too strange to be free of even a light cloak, after years living in the North. He draped the dark fabric around Sansa's shoulders, and she immediately clutched it to her bare skin, to cover her nakedness.

"Why are you all just standing here, doing nothing?" Theon raged at the silent lords and ladies, who avoided his eyes, shame-faced, "Lady Sansa is the daughter of a Great House! Who dares to treat her thus?"

"Her King!" hissed a petulant voice, and Theon's head snapped up to take in the pompous prick seated upon the Iron Throne.

"She is a traitor's daughter," the King insisted, "Her blood is tainted."

Theon drew the sword from his hip before he even felt his hand touch the pommel. The Kingsguard drew their blades in answer, five swords against him, though none made a move to attack without word from their pissant King. Two were missing, but the odds were still hardly in Theon's favour. Still, Theon wanted to lop Joffrey's arms off, for daring to raise a hand against Sansa in this manner.

"No, please-" Sansa whimpered, her red-rimmed eyes wide and terrified.

They said she had seen her father die before the Sept of Baelor. It was only the thought that she might see another person from her home killed before her that stayed his hand. He could not afford to be foolish. The Kingsuard were chosen because they were brutally skilled. Theon had always been better with the bow. With reluctance, he resheathed his sword.

It was then that Tyrion Lannister arrived, and defused the situation with words of censure for his evil little nephew. Theon let the man educate the boy on the fate of the Mad King for doing 'whatever he pleased'. Theon offered a hand to Sansa. She looked at him with faint mistrust, but took it anyway. Perhaps his recent chivalry overrode her worries, that he had turned his cloak against her brother.

Her blotchy, reddened face had paled by the time Theon was leading Sansa out on his arm. They were suddenly surrounded by fussing ladies-in-waiting, who had been utterly useless when their mistress was humiliated. Theon glared at the girls, who became subdued, and followed them out. At least until Tyrion Lannister hurried after them, to ask Sansa if she wanted free of her marriage pact with Joffrey. Theon expected her to jump at the chance, but Sansa's voice carried no inflection when she said;

"I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one true love."

What in all the gods names had the Lannisters done to her?


	3. Chapter 3

"Sorry Princess," said Theon, with a rather unapologetic grin, "I'm going to roast all your infantry men."

He pushed his carved red marble dragon piece along the cyvasse board toward her moonstone soldiers.

"Oh! Bother," said Myrcella with a sweet little frown, "I really am no good at this troublesome game."

Theon offered her a gentle smile. The dead King's only daughter (if the Lannister's insistence that she was trueborn, was to believed), was a pleasant little kitten, with a temperament that was as docile as her delicate looks suggested. Theon didn't find her terribly riveting company, but she was at least agreeable, if not very clever. But better a pretty fool than a shrewd harpy like her mother. Theon found himself imagining Mrycella as his wife, and it was an uncomplicated picture. She was charming and deferential; she would provide no challenge or great passion, but she was like to be loyal and keep out of his affairs.

Lady Stark had always held great sway in Winterfell, because Lord Eddard was an exceedingly busy man, being the Warden of a Kingdom. But Theon would have no need of a politically savvy wife, beyond a basic ability to charm and defuse tensions between his lords with her bright presence. And Mrycella certainly shone brilliantly, whenever she was out from underneath the gloomy shadow of her mother and elder brother.

They were seated together on a private terrace, connected to the royal apartments. They were chaperoned by his Aunt Gwyn, who was nose-deep in a historical tome from the Great Library, and Ser Barristan the Bold. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood stoically three or four paces behind Mrycella's back, in the shade cast by the Red Keep.

"If you find it so troublesome," said Theon, "Why have we played this game so often, Princess?"

It was their fourth or fifth match, and Myrcella blushed to have been caught adhering to the courtly custom of undertaking amusements you did not genuinely enjoy, for the impression it gave to others.

"Please, my lord," she said softly, "Won't you call me Myrcella?"

"Only if you call me Theon," he replied, "And answer my question, Myrcella."

She ducked her head to hide behind her golden curls as she poked at her smooth moonstone ship, the piece to denote her fleet.

"Mother says 'tis a game of strategy," she admitted, "And a valuable past time for growing minds."

"Might be so," Theon agreed, "But it's rather boring isn't it?"

Theon grinned as she whipped up her head again, to catch the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. She let out a bright, happy laugh, and Theon was pleased to have amused her. He could see himself growing to love that surprised little laugh, and endeavoured to make her giggle more often.

"If cyvasse doesn't please you, what do you prefer, Mrycella?"

Her green eyes widened with genuine joy, as though no one had ever been interested in her interests before. It was highly likely; Robert Baratheon didn't seem the type to take great note of his children's affairs, and Cersei Lannister was entirely devoted to her son, the King. Plump Prince Tommen was occupied with his cats, but Mrycella didn't have any pets that he knew of.

"Well, I have been trained in the high harp, High Valyrian and sketching with charcoal," she began, "But those are lessons with Essosi masters... my real passion is my garden."

"Oh?"

Theon had never heard tell that the Princess had any interest in gardens, beyond walking though them and admiring the roses.

"Oh yes!" she trilled, "I dig out the soil and plant the seeds, and it's wonderful to watch the stems grow and grow and eventually bloom."

"Well then," said Theon, hopping smartly to his feet, "Lead on, Mrycella."

She looked up to him with her plump lips parted in surprise.

"Truly?" she asked, "You would care to see it?"

"If it is the passion of my Princess," said Theon smoothly, "It seems only fitting that I set eyes upon that which brings her joy."

Beaming, Mrycella abandoned their half-finished game, and consented to take the arm Theon held out for her. Her delicate hand weighted nothing upon his arm as they strolled leisurely, Ser Barristan following at a stately pace at the rear. Aunt Gwyn acknowledged their movement with a lazy wave of her hand, clearly content to leave them to it.

Myrcella led Theon to her designated patch of the royal gardens with a proud flourish, pointing to the flowers she had grown from seed, and the shrubbery she clipped and tended to keep it orderly. Theon found he was not feigning interest, but was actually pleased to look upon the neat little patch of brightly blooming flowers. It was a riot of bold colours and heavenly scents.

"Orange flowers are my favourite," Mrycella revealed, "And they look best amongst the yellow and pink blooms, do they not?"

"They do indeed," Theon agreed, "Orange is a very nice colour indeed; it would suit you well also, with your hair."

The young girl seemed flattered, but then her pink lips pouted as she revealed; "Mother says it is better to dress in House colours. But most of my dresses are only Lannister-red."

"Well, black is very dreary," Theon conceded, "But perhaps you ought to commission a yellow dress or two, from the castle seamstresses? If decorated with the black stag, your mother could take no issue then."

"Do you think I should?" Mrycella asked, seeking further encouragement, "Mother usually makes all those sorts of arrangements, for dresses and jewels..."

"I think you are a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms," said Theon, "And you should have what your heart desires."

She flushed prettily then, but was brave enough to hold his gaze with her bold green eyes. "I think perhaps, I have already been given it."

Theon could not keep the smirk from his face then, pompously proud to be the first in Mrycella's affections, as she bloomed from a girl into womanhood. If only every girl was so easy to win over, he thought. He remembered Sansa's hollow looks as Theon pleaded with her to let him into her confidence, and speak to him of Joffrey's mistreatment. The smile slid from his face then, as he was reminded that these sunny afternoons in idle merriment were not the usual rhythm of life in the Capital. Not for him, and not for those he was bound to protect.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read & review!


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